


Allergic to Pomegranates

by hexereii



Category: Fantastic Four, Fantastic Four (Comicverse)
Genre: Captivity, Collars, Control Issues, Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, Fighting As Foreplay, Fighting Kink, Hate Sex, Light Masochism, Lovers To Enemies To Captivity To Lovers Again, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Now Includes Actual Plot, Rough Sex, Sadism, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, it's complicated - Freeform, oh god how do i tag this, they don't really hate each other tho?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2020-12-27 17:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexereii/pseuds/hexereii
Summary: UPDATE: This is being expanded into a longer fic, because I have no self control whatsoever.First chapter is very explicit! Dubcon elements at the very very end (unexpected collaring). Read at ya own risk, though it's pretty canon-typical imo (including the collar, in fact).From there... starting on chapter 3, it all starts going other places and I have a larger arc planned.This is my vague attempt at a Hades/Persephone "hero is technically held captive but is surprisingly okay with that" fic, but also just... fun, really. Just a plain old fic that will hopefully be enjoyable to read (I'll post a G-rated version once it's done if there's any interest in that).Also, it all started when I realized these two both seemed to really like grappling with each other an awful lot.





	1. "mine," he said

**H**ardly the first time he’d visited Latveria alone, and just as with every such occasion, Victor was _clearly_ expecting him. The traps were very specific; designed less to target whatever weaknesses his enemy imagined he had than to force overexertion--wearing him down more quickly and leaving him bruised and frayed.

  
As always Doom underestimated him, though not by much–he _was_ worn down, gradually but certainly, by every new obstacle he faced. None of them seemed to be lethal, though whether that was by design or just by luck was hard to say.

  
Meanwhile, knowing that the smug, condescending bastard was simply watching this all play out from a safe vantage point somewhere, keeping _himself_ fresh for a new fight once Reed was weary enough… that was enough to keep him going. Vindictive, petty _pride_; wanting to knock the smirk off of Doom's face even if he couldn't see it--that made for a powerful motivating force through it all. Added reason to be glad he'd come alone, really, since this wasn't something he much wanted the others to see--the battle had always been between the two of them, anyway--but on a deeper level, Reed intensely hated the confrontation that he already knew was coming.

  
Hated it, because underneath it all, he _didn’t_ hate it. While he paced from room to room, searching for Victor, he felt enervated; practically eager, despite the bruises and fatigue. Part of him wanted this conflict. Wanted any excuse to lay hands on his enemy again and vice-versa.

  
He hid all of that, the anticipation and weird longing (god, don't call it that--call it an itch, if anything at all) behind forced bravado the second he reached the main room and found it empty, too. Incongruous torches burned in their metal brackets along the walls, illuminating a space otherwise dominated by gleaming, state-of-the-art technology.

  
The control room. Or, knowing Doom, one control room of many–certainly not the heart of his system.

  
“Come out here and face me, Victor! I didn’t fly all this way just to fight your robots and appreciate the decor!”

Silence.

  
Standing there, exposed and jangling with adrenaline, Reed felt increasingly more ridiculous. Just as he’d felt in school a thousand times, trying to make contact with this otherworldly, overwhelming creature who alternately ignored him and the met his advances with such blistering rage that he'd wanted to slip through the cracks in the walls and disappear.

  
_ (Was that where it had started? When he’d begun craving… whatever this was?)_

  
His contemplation was interrupted by a familiar heavy step ringing on stone; the click of fitted plates moving with Doom’s body as he walked without urgency, chain rattling against his collarbone whenever the wind stirred his cloak. Reed froze, chest and stomach clenching with a tensely-held breath, mesmerized.

  
Shaking it off with effort–reminding himself sternly that Doom could, quite literally, exert a kind of hypnotic control over others–Reed waited for the first move. Though of course, there was talking first. God, did he ever get tired of the sound of his own voice? Not when he thought he had a point to make, certainly. Which was... nearly always.  
Richards' replies were dull at first; they lacked bite and he knew it. What was worse, Victor seemed to know it, too, and if he wanted to get closer… he'd have to do better. Dig a little deeper and find something to weaponize, but nothing so harsh that it might really sting or cause anger. Like chess, this was a kind of game. Unlike chess, he stood a fair chance of getting shot if he wasn’t careful. Not fatal, but not pleasant, either.

  
The baiting worked better than he’d hoped–though why suggesting that Victor find a new hobby would touch such a nerve he had no idea–and what had previously been a simple cat-and-mouse exchange with far more verbal jabs than physical ones suddenly turned very, very serious–exactly when Reed expected it the least. 

  
Few people realized just how quickly Doom could move, even in the armor. Stronger and faster than Reed, certainly more vicious, and it was never a matter of _if_ he’d get the upper hand, only of how long it might take. Several turns and blocks and frantic, unplanned scramblings later and Reed was pinned with his back to the wall, limbs wound stubbornly around Doom’s armored form like the coils of a snake as the king, unperturbed, wrapped both hands around Richards’ throat and squeezed hard, pushing him away at the same time.

  
_ 'Entangled like lovers,'_ Reed couldn't help thinking. Not for the first time; likely not for the last, either. He coiled tighter and squeezed Victor's arms and legs like a python, feeling the armor give fractionally; heard a distorted growl of irritation and then his head hit the wall hard enough to unsettle his visual cortex for an instant. A normal human would have been either blinded or killed, but then again... neither of them were normal humans.

  
There was something freeing in that fact.  


Reed instinctively recoiled and let go, regaining his usual shape and grappling to get a purchase on Victor’s face or neck in return. Sharp, cold edges caught at his palms and he hissed at the discomfort and frustration, fingers skittering harmlessly over the fitted metal pieces, nails scraping across the surface in search of some place to sink in and _unlock_\--

  
Up close, Victor von Doom smelled like ozone and overheated circuitry and machine oil and clean human sweat. Reed bit back a snarl of frustration and fought harder, clawing blindly at anything he could reach, but the gauntlets closed tighter around his throat and--

  
No. He couldn't get caught up in details like that right now. With effort, he could still breathe. It wasn’t about depriving him of air so much as the thing it was invariably about, where Doom was concerned–establishing dominance. Physically, in this case. For whatever reason.

  
_ (Wasn’t that exactly what he'd secretly wanted?)_

  
Flailing and grasping and finally making contact, there was a childish sense of satisfaction in feeling the cloak chain snap, part of Victor’s tunic tearing free along with it.  
The feeling didn’t last, of course; Doom spun him to face the wall, arms twisted behind his back and unable to reach, to stretch enough or grip firmly enough or gain any traction at all as Reed’s cheek ground against rough stone, pinned there by Victor’s forearm at the back of his neck.

  
Dignified, it was not.

“Why **_did_ **you come here, Reed?”

Scowling against harsh granite in confusion, Reed searched for an answer. (Trying not to think to much about Doom uttering his actual name; he could still feel the rumble of it, echoing in his head and chest and lower down.) The question... in this context… made no sense, and his face felt hot against the cool, jagged surface. His entire _body_ felt hot, trapped between the wall and Victor's armored form.

“You asked–” Call it what it was, really. “Demanded–”

A faint, hollow ‘tick’ and the shock of warm breath against Reed’s ear.

He’d taken the mask off. His lips were barely a half-inch from Reed’s skin, and the perfectly ordinary human contact allowed even in the brief expanse from hairline to sharply-curved jaw… it was difficult to think of anything else but how close Victor was. About the crush of his body (rock, meet hard place) pinning Reed more firmly against the stones, their heights differing, but the difference only making the points of pressure more exact, somehow. More maddeningly precise.

Keeping himself still took every ounce of concentration.

(The shame of it wasn’t just that he was aroused, but that he’d been aroused since the second they’d fallen into close contact. That this had happened before. Typically he could hide it, of course, but just now… He didn’t want to. Not with Victor nestled against him, practically grinding him into the wall–even if he was also trying, vaguely, to murder him.)

  
“I demanded, but you could have refused and we both know it. Why acquiesce? Why are you **_here_**?”

He was not _writhing_ against Victor. Surely, he wasn’t. Squirming in place like a trapped insect–perhaps. That was humiliating enough, but to think that he might be… in some small way… enjoying this...

"Go to hell," he whispered.

"Not this week," Victor replied, drolly.

  
The weight across his neck lifted at last and Reed drew back with caution, taking in a deep breath that caught when one gauntlet rattle-clattered against the marble floor–the second following quickly.

  
“Victor?”

  
A wide, bare hand buried itself in his hair, very human fingers curling around his throat. Reed moaned before he could stop himself; a soft, plaintive sound of long-buried need that he couldn’t have stifled if he tried.

  
"Yes. That's what I thought,” Victor pronounced smugly, fingers curling in Reed’s hair to twist his head aside, leaving his neck bare. This time, the moan was unmistakable as Victor’s teeth left sharp, hard marks along the skin; Reed hated how quickly the feeling faded; hated how his head turned so eagerly to allow for more.

  
(The rough friction of scar tissue against his jaw made him ache to touch, but his hands were still trapped, the position still too awkward, even with his flexibility.)

  
He hadn’t forgotten for a second where he was or with whom. The danger wasn’t just a background awareness here; something to keep in mind–it was part of what drew him to Victor, again and again. Being yanked back and dropped to the floor like a child’s toy was more or less expected–staring up past the gleaming curves of his legs to the stretch of green fabric covering his chest ( the tunic was embroidered at the hem; he’d never noticed that before) Reed lifted to hook his fingers on Doom’s belt, intent on bringing his would-be conqueror down with him.

  
Victor ignored the hands clutching at him, trying to pull him down; he took his time to appreciate this moment and everything that went with it, from the dazzled, helpless look on Reed’s face to the quick rise-and-fall of his chest; the way he struggled to minimize his own desires and failed so completely, pupils wide and skin flushed.

  
He couldn’t linger for long; time enough to take off his belt and tunic, leaving only the armor beneath as he swatted Reed’s hands away and straddled him, their hips meeting to offer only a cold, inhuman version of what was wanted most--though Reed still arched up in spite of himself, grateful for the relief of smooth, cold metal against heated skin, soothing even through the complex fabric of his suit. (If he could only get his head clear, if he could just–)

  
A sharp movement drove hard ridges from Doom’s armor into his hips; not cutting or deep, but a persistent discomfort that felt intentional.

“Take the armor off,” he rasped. God, he barely even sounded like himself anymore.

"In due course," Victor murmured. Then, a pause to consider, one dark brow arching as a smile tugged at his full lips. "Unless you want to try--_again_\--to remove it yourself."

  
Glaring, Richards considered the idea very seriously; he reached and was halted. Tried again and found one hand caught. The other kept going and suddenly they were back on familiar ground again, fighting for control and unwilling to give a single inch, both on their knees on the dropped, outspread cloak, kissing and biting between muttered curses.

  
Even the kisses were violent--a clash of lips and tongue and teeth, fingers clutching to hold the other still, determined to seize control of the situation and keep it--his teeth sank into Victor's lower lip and Victor shoved him away with a breathless snarl, somehow managing to tear his uniform along the back and get most of it off. He returned the favor by curling his hands around Doom's bared wrists and pulling, coiling one arm around both arms despite the strain (even without the armor he was strong... how had Reed forgotten how goddamned strong he was?) and working the other hand beneath delicate locks and complicated mechanisms, undoing buckles and linchpins to pop open every piece from the wrists to the waist before Victor could lunge far enough to get his teeth into Reed's bare skin.

  
By the time they were both naked, they were also bruised, scuffed, panting, and glassy-eyed from the constant back-and-forth of it all.

  
"I hate you," Doom practically purred against his ear, dark eyes heavy-lidded and hands stroking every part of Reed's body he could reach.

  
"Yes, Victor. I'm well aware." The dry humor fell a little flat, given the husky, breathless tone it was uttered in. "But I've never hated you."  
The hands retreated. The soothing animal heat of Doom's muscular body withdrew.

  
"Yes, Reed." A taunting echo of his own words. "I am well aware."

  
Pinning Richards beneath him now that he had the opportunity, arms crossed around his shoulders, Victor nipped at the delicate skin at the nape of his neck and murmured teasingly against it:

  
"Surrender or keep fighting--we'll both get what we want, correct?"

  
Initially, he _did_ fight, or at least offer a token resistance, struggling and pushing back against Doom to throw him off.

  
"You really think I'm going to let _you_\--"

  
Tightening his hold, Victor pulled Reed up onto his knees and held him there, trapped, under the solid weight of his body; cock grinding deliberately and promisingly against the upward curve of his ass.

  
"Yes." A simple answer for a simple question.

As if Reed wasn't already shivering and pressing back with increasing urgency, fully aware of the pathetic sounds he made. Fully aware that he had already given up all pretense of struggle.

  
"You could at least..." He couldn't catch his breath. Damn it... "--Look me in the eye, kiss me during..."

  
Victor dug his fingers into Reed’s hair and jerked his head back roughly, nuzzling against his neck and teasing the skin with long swipes of his tongue and sharp, vicious little bites. Keeping Reed curled beneath him, the soft hairs threading down his stomach tickling the base of Richards’ spine, he pressed in teasingly against him but stopped just shy of actual penetration. Odd that it hadn't occurred to Reed he might be excited enough to be slick eith pre-come already. Odder still that--

  
He wanted this so badly he'd just whimpered, forehead pressed to the floor, when Victor stopped.

  
And the teasing voice behind him evidently hadn't missed a thing.

  
“How long have you wanted this?” He breathed. “Ached for it? Dreamed about something exactly like this--being shoved down and taken, being conquered, being fucked on the floor because you hardly deserve the soft comfort of a bed, do you, Reed?"

  
If there was one thing Reed Richards had learned by now, it was when to let Victor monologue. He gulped air and rolled his hips desperately beneath that unyielding weight; so aroused it had become a source of physical pain. He hated how much he enjoyed every aspect of this, including his own discomfort. Including Victor’s control.

  
Finally, Doom gave in and no matter how ready Reed thought he was, he wasn't quite ready enough.

  
"...Did you ever _once_ imagine this as a **_gentle_ **coupling?”

He truly hadn't, Reed knew–lifting to open himself further to that first relentless push, heart pounding in his chest and throat as sensation flooded his awareness. Victor half-rose to grip Reed’s hips for guidance, setting a brutal, steady pace that ground each thrust into his prostate, the pleasure and sensitivity growing while Reed struggled to maintain any sense of... anything at all. His hands gripped the soft green velvet of Doom's cloak. kneading it as he adjusted to the pressure and fullness and intensity of it all.

Using the traction of his knees, he could hold himself up, slide a hand beneath, address the all-consuming ache between his legs–but Victor caught that stray hand and pinned it easily beneath his own and Reed played along readily, groaning with his head thrown back in dismay.

  
“...Spiteful bastard…”

Doom’s low laugh made his stomach twist shamefully; he'd only meant to go with the whole thing, not to egg him on, but that sound... the way it made him shiver was absolutely worth delaying his own pleasure for just a few seconds, especially when Victor remembered himself and slipped a hand under Reed's hip to see to his needs.

Lifting to give him access, Reed could only breathe through all of it for few seconds–the heat of Victor’s skin against his, the too-tight pressure of rough fingertips and smooth palm against his cock–too much contrast, too much sensation, the building pressure threatening his equilibrium--everything was far too much but he was still meeting every hard, jarring thrust with the same violent eagerness, clawing at Victor’s hip to demand more.

Then a calloused thumb flicked across the slit and Reed heard a long, high-pitched noise coming from his own throat (no doubt Victor would _love_ that) as everything went white.

Somewhere in there, he called out Victor’s name; the rest was wordless. Doom’s fingers dug into one shoulder, his face pressed against Reed’s neck to stifle a short, sharp moan as he came--nothing else seemed to exist for the next few seconds. Minutes, perhaps. It felt like longer, certainly.

“You're _mine_,” he heard Doom whisper. There were very few words or phrases in the Zefiro Romani dialect that Reed could truly recognize, but that one, he knew. Perhaps Victor had chosen it for that very reason.

“Don't be absurd,” came the immediate reply in English; Reed chuckling at the thought and shaking his head. Shivering wreck though he was, blissful though he felt, there was no need to get carried away, surely...

The snap of cold metal around his throat, the low hum of a circuit closing, and Victor's icy smile of triumph cut through the warm haze of pleasure instantly.  
"I think perhaps you've misunderstood," he murmured, stroking the collar lightly. "It was not a question or a request--old friend."


	2. honored guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I stg this was only going to be a one-shot smutfic: a novel by me
> 
> Really, I didn't intend to continue this one, but the premise just demanded it. This is NOT going to depict Doom in the most ideal light, I mean... I love the character but he does have a darker side to him and that usually comes out when he's dealing with Reed. It's on full display here, pretty much.
> 
> Warnings apply, y'all. This is my weird-ass take on Hades/Persephone with these two, in a certain sense.

** R**eed jolted awake with a gasp, hand clutching at his chest. Sweat had soaked the thin fabric of his pajama top, plastering it to his skin uncomfortably--beneath that, his heart galloped along frantically. Inching higher, his fingertips brushed the smooth, polished band around his throat and for a few seconds, everything froze. Whatever his nightmare had been, the one he’d woken to was infinitely worse. Falling was nothing compared to... whatever this was likely to be. Was he a prisoner? The room was comfortable, Victor had called him a "guest," there were no locks on his door, and yet...

He felt the band press against his Adam's apple when he swallowed.

No. Considering himself merely Doom's prisoner oversimplified the situation. This was much, much worse, even if he couldn't see the full scope of it just now.

He’d find out soon enough, there was little doubt of that.

Pulling his knees up, Reed looped both arms around them and rested his forehead against the soft, gathered silk. The collar limited his abilities, but so far there seemed no way to shut them off completely; he’d had no chance to question Victor about the mechanics of it all so far. Yesterday had been too much of a muddle to really get a grasp on anything beyond his immediate feelings and reactions.

Slipping off the damp shirt, Reed huddled in on himself miserably and recalled–first, what had unwisely been allowed to occur (he’d been not only willing but eager; it was difficult to regret _that_) and then… the moment of panic. Victor’s obvious amusement. A simple series of demands–get dressed, and contact his team. Let them believe that he was on a different planet entirely, that the connection was breaking up, that…

(No one had any idea where he was. No one would search for him. At least, not on Earth and certainly not in Latveria of all places. Which led him back to the original question: what sort of game was Victor even playing?)

"I'm an idiot," he groaned. Walking right into all of this so blithely, fully believing that he could handle it alone; worse than that, wanting the excuse to be alone, to do what he'd wanted for such a long time. The arrogance made him wince; he'd honestly thought he might dance with this particular devil and walk away unscathed.

And worse, some part of him wished Victor were there even now, though whether it was genuine want or the intense loneliness of the dark, unfamiliar space--or just some odd little twist in his mind fueled further by the frustrating sense of his own helplessness. Doom was someone to crash this mixture of confused feelings and reactions into. Something hard and sharp to break himself against. A far better option than sitting in bed, cursing his own stupidity.

Raking both hands through his hair and rubbing briskly at his face, Reed straightened and stared out the window–through the latticed glass and out across the foothills and forests. There was no clock, but he could estimate the time well enough. 4am, a bit past.

Victor was a notoriously early riser–and Reed allowed himself a small, pained smile at the realization that yes, he’d been that way in college, too–though whether he'd receive "guests" at this hours was hard to say. 

He already knew that clothes would have been set out for him during the night. Precisely fit and to his ideal preferences, right down to the boxer-briefs. There was little point in speculating on how his old friend _knew_ these things; there was very little he didn't seem to know, and even understanding that it was a false front didn't make the effect any less... unsettling.

Giving up on further rest, Reed made his way to the shower and started preparing for the day. The sooner he was able to confront Victor, the sooner he could hopefully find some way out of this.

The clothes were unremarkable; a button-down shirt and slacks, a belt that contained no parts he might repurpose for tools, and comfortable shoes. Not as casual as he preferred, but then again… Victor was, for good or ill, a _king_. Some degree of formality was expected, evidently.

And he’d been provided a mirror; a small thing on a swivel base next to the sink, clearly added as an afterthought. But still, it had been added… what to make of that, precisely? That pets--sorry, "guests"--were expected to look their best no matter the circumstances? Somehow, he doubted it was for his own benefit.

A quick once-over to check that he was presentable--wishing there were some way to hide the damned thing locked around his neck–and he left to search for his “host.”

No one prevented him leaving from leaving, and that seemed... odd. No guard or attendant appeared to block his path or guide him through the castle. It was too easy, which made him immediately suspicious. Though not enough to ignore the tempting scent of freshly-brewed coffee, drawing him down the hallway and into the dining room. Still no servants in sight, human or otherwise, but there was caffeine, at least--fresh fruit and a modest assortment of baked goods were also waiting, but Reed only sipped the coffee and stared out the nearby window.

Where was Victor? There was approximately zero chance that this freedom was anything of the sort in actuality, so what was the setup? Down below, he could just make out the lights of distant houses and see the distant figure of a dairy farmer setting out to begin their work.

His liberty here was as much an illusion as theirs. Doom had always kept his people just happy enough to stop looking for the exits. Content enough to turn a blind eye to any atrocities their king deemed necessary to maintain the order and keep the peace.

“At least the trains run on time,” he murmured over his cup at the figures below.

Victor _must_ know that approach wouldn’t work on _him_, surely?

And why did he get the distinct feeling that, much like yesterday, he was being put through his paces while Doom watched from somewhere else until he finally let his guard down? 

Breakfast done, Reed went searching in earnest; up stairs and down again, along empty hallways and over balconies… there was no sign of Doom.

It was a trap. He knew it was. Worse than that, it was a **_test_**–but he had to know. He had to see just how far the leash would stretch, if nothing else.

Unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling the shirt sleeves back, Reed turned casually and headed for the one exit he considered least likely to be guarded; down on the lower level, beneath the wine cellar, in the castle’s east wing. Getting through the maze of passageways would be tricky, but better that than… whatever the alternatives may be.

The door to the winding staircase he needed was just ahead–five inches from his outstretched hand. Maybe Victor had meant this as some sort of joke? Maybe the collar did nothing at all–

There was no warning at all. Reed collapsed to the carpeted floor, too shocked to even scream as the pain hit in a single, engulfing wave.

It ended quickly, and he hated how grateful for that he was, but before he’d even looked up, he knew exactly what to expect: Doom, standing right in front of him as if by magic. Waiting, as he had been this entire time, for the chance to demonstrate _exactly_ what the collar was for.

“No doubt you recall the story of Icarus’ ill-fated flight, Richards. Drift too far from the path, reach too high, and there will be _consequences_.”

Between gulps of air, he seethed and bit out a reply.

“You could have just said… I can’t actually escape. Brevity is the soul of _wit_, Victor.”

Reed could hear the note of irritation in Doom’s response; a small but satisfying thing:

“I saw no need to explain the obvious to you in small, simple words. You seem to grasp the situation, after all--but feel free to try again, I enjoy watching you writhe.”

Trying to stand, and finding that his legs wouldn’t support the concept at all, Reed simply glared upward.

“The hands-off approach… that’s… well, clever, of course, you’ve always been clever, but it seems so _impersonal_. So… _unsatisfying_, isn’t it? I mean, if you can’t subdue me without specialized equipment, have you really _proven_ anything? Is a hollow victory like this even worth your time?”

Doom studied him in foreboding silence.

On the second wave, screaming was not only possible but unavoidable; Reed wanted to curl in on himself, but whatever the device had triggered kept him from it until the pain finally stopped.

“Yes, it very much _is_,” Doom responded dryly. “I’ll send an attendant to fetch you once you’ve recovered enough to stand.”


	3. unwilling ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terms get discussed, and Reed isn't at all happy with the outcome.

**D**oom had mentioned Icarus but given the situation overall, Reed couldn't help but think of other Greek myths instead. Of course, if Victor was Hades in this scenario, what did that make him? Best not to dwell on the idea, nor on the metaphorical pomegranate seeds he'd tasted already. (How many times would he kick himself for that indiscretion?)

Taking stock of things now that he was alone, Richards considered exactly what he might be facing. Not a single human servant had interacted with him so far--that lessened his chance of escape even further. His robotic "attendant" stood waiting, but Reed refused its cold comfort no matter how uncooperative his limbs still felt, clumsily pushing away from the hard skeletal outline of the thing to stand on his own two feet.

A ridiculous show of pride, he knew, but relying on Victor's tech, accepting his help... absolutely not. The collar apparently caused extreme rigidity in the muscles when triggered--as if countering his abilities had been taken to its worst possible extreme--though there was clearly a neurological component as well, activating nerve signals and...

None of that was helpful in the least. Still, any knowledge was a fraction more than he'd had previously and gathering data was second nature. Keeping his mind occupied provided the illusion of activity and through that, _hope_.

He found Victor sitting at a heavy wooden desk in what seemed to be his private study, idly sifting through paperwork.

"Say 'Good morning,' first." The hooded figure barely even stirred; he hadn't so much as glanced in Reed's direction and the words hit him dully, anger rising in a sudden hot spike.

_ "What?"_

Doom paused with an air of perfect patience and set the pen and papers aside, clasping his hands together atop the stack. The look he offered was one of icy amusement. 

"You never greeted me," he explained. "I find that appalling. And since you will, no doubt, want your questions answered promptly, best if we begin in a civil tone. '_Good morning' _will do--for a start."

Reed clenched his teeth so hard that his jaws ached. Kidnapping, torture, and now... he was supposed to act like they were friends? Maintain the fiction of being Doom's _guest?_

"Fine. Good morning, Victor. How are you today? May I ask why you're holding me prisoner and what your plans are, exactly?"

Doom disapproved of the sarcasm, that much was obvious, but he seemed content with Reed's willingness to simply go through the motions at least.

"Certainly, you may--after explaining why you came here yesterday without telling a soul what you intended, and then eagerly pursued a liaison with someone you've called an enemy for years."

Spine stiffening as a prickly mixture of dismay, shame, and outrage gathered in his chest and stomach, Reed had to remind himself to keep to the _insane_ rules laid out so far by his captor and hold his tongue. Be civil. At the very least, try not to actually call him a manipulative lunatic to his face... or... mask, anyway. The memory of that earlier shock lingered unpleasantly at the back of his mind.

"We both know that wasn't premeditated," he snapped defensively, all too aware that no matter what words he chose at this moment, he was also blushing into the fuchsia spectrum and Victor would _of course_ read something into that.

Maybe there was something to be said for keeping your face hidden. Maybe his 'old friend' had the right idea on that.

Doom studied him for a while in silence and it was everything he could do not to squirm or fidget under that sharp scrutiny._ 'Just like college.'_ Reed thought, finally glancing away in what he justified as reasonable self-preservation (after all, he knew better than most what this man could do with sustained eye contact). That Victor's intense gaze left him feeling _peered into_ in some awful way, opened up and read and _known_ in even the darkest corners... that was only a small part of it. And truthfully, that had always been the case--and precisely why he felt so compelled to meet them in defiance whenever possible.

"You _insisted_ I come alone." It sounded flimsy, as excuses went. An insubstantial justification for doing exactly what he'd wanted to do anyway. "And _yes_, I was foolish enough to actually _comply_\--so here we are. But that doesn't explain what the rest of this is, exactly."

The armor, he realized, didn't rattle, exactly. It produced a unique series of hollow, insectile clicking noises; a private symphony of metal parts fitting together with the precision of watch gears, though on a vastly larger and more complex scale. Reed wanted to study it more closely, to see how it all worked, how Victor had built this iteration and what function each piece served. Though accompanying that impulse, as always, was the dull, guilty ache of loss. Recognizing the man's brilliance also meant understanding how he had squandered it--but if he began cataloging the tragedies between them now, he would only risk exposing himself to further manipulation and he knew it.

It had been far too long since he'd posed the question.

"You are here because Doom has need of you; why else?" A hollow voice to match the absence of anything visibly human from the hood's shadows.

Hell of a way to kill that brief stirring of sentimentality Reed had been struggling with, at least.

"_Of course_ I am." His tone was a mixture of fatigue and sarcasm. "And if Doom would care to specify what that need actually _consists_ of, we can establish whether I'm willing to help him or not."

The metallic bark of Victor's laugh made Richards tense, perching at the edge of his chair in case he needed to move quickly.

"Of course _you will_. You have no other choice." Watching him stand slowly, Reed braced himself against the worst--or tried to. Not knowing what Victor might do next made planning impossible, but he could be ready to stand his ground at least.

But Doom hadn't lied--there really was no alternative here. And meanwhile, he was circling the desk and getting closer while Reed simply watched, deciding where he might move to and how quickly he could get there and whether he even wanted to evade at all.

(That scent: metal and hydraulic fluid. Heated circuitry and leather and clean human skin beneath it all.)

"I'm not afraid of you, Victor."

The corners of Doom's eyes crinkled unevenly behind the mask, pushed upward by a playful smirk. He knew, Reed realized. Knew, and _delighted_ in that knowledge; fear would have made this much less interesting for him. Exactly how he knew that, how he understood it, there was no way to determine. He knew it because he knew _Victor, _it was just as simple as that.

"Once, you built a variation on the Bridge--your feeble attempt at a gateway between worlds--which somehow allowed you to reach a gathering of multi-dimensional duplicates." Leaning against the desk, Doom seemed to pause for dramatic effect. "The 'Council' still exists; you will help me eradicate them."

Reed could only stare, half-hoping that this was a joke (of course it wasn't, when did Doom _ever _make jokes, about _anything_?)

"I absolutely won't. I'm not going to help you commit murder, Victor--"

An open palm requested silence, though the "request" was backed by a glowing weapon at its center.

"All I require of you are a few essential components, things I could easily craft myself, were they not--"

"Oh," Reed interrupted, resisting the urge to laugh. "The machine needs my biometric signature to engage; you couldn't route around that because it wouldn't open on the other side, am I right?"

The scowl that met his words said it all.

Reed forged ahead, ignoring the look.

"So _when_\--not _if_\--I refuse, how will you _solve_ that problem?"

Drawing back, Doom folded his arms and grew uncharacteristically solemn.

"You've seen what they _do_, Richards. Every Victor von Doom in every universe, rounded up like cattle and left in those conditions--you are content with this? Their methods are acceptable to you? The destruction of entire worlds to make way for their machines, planetary slaughter on an unimaginable scale for projects they _claim_ will serve the greater good--they are monsters. _Your_ monsters, to be precise. And the burden of stopping them should, by rights, fall to you alone; I have arranged all of this because I know you are far too spineless to do what must be done."

Reed sat numb, absorbing this information. For all of Doom's faults--and there were many--he couldn't bring himself to lie, which meant...

(It was true. He'd known it or suspected it from the start; he knew the others' minds just as he knew his own. Every dark corner and terrible road he'd refused to take. They'd have no trouble justifying those choices.)

Though there was obviously more to it than just that. Some way in which Doom stood to benefit on a personal level... But what could he do for now but go along with it all and bide his time?

Clearing his throat, he gestured vaguely at the metal band around it.

"Why the... games, Victor? The collar, the... 'liaison,' as you put it, what role does _that _play in this scheme?"

Those sharp brown eyes went suddenly flinty, then oddly _evasive_.

"The collar should be obvious. The rest was... unintentional."

"...Then this wasn't... you weren't..."

The full force of Victor's glare turned on him suddenly, white-hot and unsettling.

"Yes? Spit it out, Richards."

Rubbing his temples tiredly, Reed fell back into the chair. Even he wasn't sure how that sentence was going to end. He'd more than half thought this was something... else, and was it a thought at all or some twisted thing he'd almost hoped for?

"Doesn't matter--I just need to... to _think_, Victor." Hands dropping into his lap, Reed felt fatigue wash over him. Fatigue, and defeat. "I clearly don't have a choice, you're right. I'll do my part up to a point, but if I can find some other way, some better plan than just killing them, will you at least consider it?"

Glancing up, he realized that those dark eyes had been watching him the entire time, steady and keen as a bird's. The mask lowered in a single curt nod and Reed would've lost cohesion slightly from relief if not for the collar's effects.

"Then I guess we can start whenever you're ready."  
  



	4. on closer inpection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one, I accidentally wrote a much longer chapter that I only realized after the fact probably belonged nearer to the end.
> 
> So on the plus side, there's that one coming up at some point soon.
> 
> Meanwhile: Work gets started, things get slightly weird between the two, and Reed pauses to reflect on some things while studying Doom's art collection.

** A**fter their discussion, while the lab was being prepared for shared use, Reed was unexpectedly left to his own devices. Though of course, the constant presence of Victor’s robots and milieu of surveillance devices made it difficult to feel truly _alone_. Was Doom actively watching him even now? Reed couldn’t begin to guess, but safer to assume he was than to test the boundaries again–for now, at least. Escape was still an absolute certainty at the back of his mind, overshadowed only in the moment by simple curiosity: allowed to roam freely in Victor’s home, what could he learn of the man that he didn’t already know?

The art that dominated every room, foyer, hallway and nook spoke of ostentatious luxury; Doom was both wealthy and dramatic, so the expensive display more than verged on gaudiness, and yet… it never _quite_ crossed over. None of it was tasteless and all of it meshed somehow into a single, unified vision of splendor.

Castle Doom was elaborately decorated in much the same way that a cathedral might be, and while it did have exactly the sort of look that suited the king's grand self-image, each individual piece still conveyed a nuanced appreciation of beauty that seemed terribly at odds with everything else Reed knew of him.

What did it say about a man with Victor’s level of disfigurement that he'd replaced mirrors with an endless array of beautiful objects, instead? Admittedly, some of them were self-portraits and nearly everything had a monogram on, but--when Reed thought of his lab at home, his own private sanctum, and the bare white walls covered with notes and equations--perhaps the display was more than it seemed. _More_, or _less_, depending on one's perspective; just as Reed immersed himself in his own work, being Doom was Victor’s magnum opus. And the trappings were all around him.

Pausing to admire the delicate brushstrokes in one particularly lovely painting, Reed was struck by the same sense of loss he’d felt the night before. How could the same hand that created this destroy so much else? Why was there always the haunting idea that something greater might be hidden behind the whole elaborate facade Victor had built?

And why, above all, should Reed even care?

That was the greater mystery, he knew--that after everything Victor had done, everything Reed had lost because of him–the faith of his family, his friends, even his marriage now that the papers had been filed–why should his well-being matter in the slightest?

Turning from the portrait, eyeing the expressionless ‘bots stationed along the wall, a profound sadness washed over him. 

Saving Victor mattered because… if _he_ didn’t, no one else would even _try_. That was the thing Reed had never been able to express to anyone else: that he felt responsible for Victor because no one else seemed to see what he did. No one else even recognized the flawed, fragile human heart of him, broken so often that he’d covered in it metal to protect it. Who would ever care to see it mended?

* * *

Victor studied the diagram closely, glowering at with unconcealed _annoyance_. It wasn't that he believed there could ever be an _error_ in his work, of course, but he disliked the thought of Reed finding any small thing to nitpick. With any luck, he wouldn't need to concern himself with the man or his pettiness for much longer--once the Council was out of his way, once he’d simultaneously gotten revenge _and_ taken everything of benefit their technology might offer--then he could be free of that persistent nuisance, one way or another. Until then, this was... an unfortunate necessity.

He was absolutely certain that his temper couldn't bear much prodding from that corner. Just having him here at all was an ongoing source of strain.

Still, as he examined the mechanism in detail and recalled which parts had been Reed's invention and which, his own work... he had to admire the _elegance_ of it. No matter what he thought of Richards in any other respect, the man’s brilliance had never ceased to impress, had never failed to stir the same deeply-buried longing that whispered to him now: _'He is like me. I don’t have to be alone.’_ Victor dismissed the plaintive thought angrily–of **course** he was alone. Doom had no peer, no true equal, and certainly no need for _friendship_. The very notion, no matter how transitory, represented a fatal flaw in his guard and that was **_precisely _**why he needed to rid himself of this captive--and the unbearable _confusion_ he brought--as quickly as possible.

The bell tower clock chimed, and Doom stood slowly, unclipping his mask and shucking off his gauntlets to rub his eyes. Preparations were now being made for dinner, and his stomach quickly reminded him that he’d never found time for lunch.

Would anyone in the world believe that Latveria’s ruler frequently lacked the wit and foresight to even look to his most basic needs? That the staff he’d frightened half to death had to remind him to eat and sleep at regular intervals? Likely not. What the world as a whole knew of him could fit neatly on a postcard with room to spare–just as he liked it.

“Master?” A servant waited at the door. Doom knew his name–he knew the entire staff, their lives, their families–just as he knew that young Alexei would stand with his eyes averted for as long as he must so that he did not accidentally see his king’s bare face.

Doom remained in the shadows and didn't bother turning to look; the mask felt too heavy to replace just yet.

“Yes?”

Gazing intently at the carpet, Alexei cleared his throat and continued with quiet reverence: “The chef would like to know, regarding your guest’s meal, how to season it?”

The combination of those utterly common, ordinary words and the deliberate, cautious tone in which they were uttered made it hard not to chuckle. Younger servants always tried too hard, either out of fear or genuine loyalty, and the effects were sometimes... unintentionally amusing.

"Paprika, thyme, basil... and... _rosemary_. For _differentiation_."

The king grimaced. An American menu for an American palette had made sense at the time, but... meatloaf? Such a dreadful, literal name and such a horrifying blandness to go along with it. He’d duplicated Susan’s recipe, but the seasoning was to taste, and Victor had no earthly idea what it should taste like.

Then again, better perhaps if Reed was not reminded of his wife just now. Which was what the rosemary was for.

“Thank you, Master. And for you?”

Victor sighed quietly. He had no interest in food, truly. All he wanted was--

_ (Was to spend more time with Reed, in a sense--but that was only in the name of finishing this scheme, naturally.)_

“...Surprise me. I’ll dine alone; accommodate our guest in whatever way he requires and then send him to lab three.”

“Of course, Sire.” The servant bowed, heels snapping together smartly.

Doom stared down again at the blueprints, eyes unfocused until the white drafting lines blurred and merged. A dotted line overlapping a solid; an unfinished thing against a more certain one. Why did that feel like an omen, somehow?

* * *

Reed had steadfastly ignored the empty seat throughout his meal. The servant--human, for once--had informed him that “Lord Doom” wouldn’t be joining him for supper, and after that… his appetite had waned.

Maybe it was the taste, honestly. No matter how skilled the kitchen staff in Doomstadt must surely be, they had no idea how to make meatloaf and it... showed. (Rosemary, who puts _rosemary_ in _meatloaf_?)

Truthfully, none of this mattered. The sooner he finished this task, the sooner he might be able to slip his leash and get out of here… but only after the machine was dealt with first. Victor had already built the damned thing, and with or without Reed’s help, he’d find some way of making it functional--no. The only way out was to keep going.

Pushing his plate away, Reed rubbed his temples in an effort to ease the tension; it did no good whatsoever, especially when the servant at his elbow politely cleared his throat and startled him half to death in the process.

Maybe he was just a little on edge. The situation certainly warranted that, didn't it?

“Sorry-- I-- Can I help you?”

Staring straight ahead, the boy dutifully delivered his message: “The Master will see you now. Please, follow me.”

Sighing, Reed stood slowly and nudged his chair back.

“I can find my own way, thanks.”

Frowning, Alexei finally focused on Reed directly and seemed to be considering something, weighing it carefully in his mind. Whatever it was, he couldn't seem to make sense of it entirely.

“As our honored guest... _wishes_, of course… but... Lord Doom is in the third sub-basement; a private laboratory with no entrance given to unauthorized personnel--” 

Reed fought the uncharacteristic urge to scoff. Clearly, this kid was _new_.

“Yes, and what, do you think, are the chances that Victor _doesn’t_ know me well enough by now to understand I've no interest in being led around like a _child_? What are the chances that I haven't been authorized _already_? That Doom hasn't planned all this out _well_ in advance?”

The young man blinked rapidly and then glanced away again, his expression indecipherable.

“Forgive me, Doctor Richards. I spoke out of turn.”

The immediate embarrassment and surprise that flooded Reed caught him off-guard.

“It’s… it’s fine. I'm the one who should apologize, for being so short with you. ...None of this is _your_ fault.” Rubbing the back of his neck where the collar’s edge kept pressing against it, he sighed again and headed for the door. “I’ll tell Victor you more than did your duty, mister... ah… I didn’t catch your name?”

“...Alexei.”

“Thank you, Alexei.”

* * *

Entrance to the lab was, in fact, easily obtained with a retinal scan and the code phrase that blinked onto the screen as soon as his identity had been confirmed. Reed stared at the phrase in squinting annoyance before speaking it aloud, sarcasm dripping from every syllable: **“Doom’s will is law.”**

The door opened, and Reed rolled his eyes at the whole procedure--half the point, he assumed, was simply to force him to repeat the damned motto at least once a day. Was Doom ever _not_ petty to the point of childishness?

Once inside the lab itself, Reed immediately forgot whatever irritation he’d felt only seconds ago. The magnitude of the project struck him like a physical force–standing in a white-walled room full of manufacturing tools and cutting-edge technology, staring down through a wide, reinforced window at the complex machine that sat half-finished on its platform below… he had a moment of unanticipated _giddiness_.

He could work here. _Build_ here. With _Victor, _no less. Collaboration was so rare for him, the thought of working at his old friend’s side was… strangely thrilling.

Though if Doom shared the sentiment, there was no sign of it at all.

“Richards." Less a greeting than a simple acknowledgment. "As you can see, progress has been swift; once your data set is plugged in, completion--and my triumph--will be swifter still."

Reed nodded dully, his gaze still locked on the half-finished machine. He hadn't heard a word of that.

“May I see the schematics? I’ll need to catch up a bit–this is further along than I anticipated–”

Doom offered a small USB drive containing the data; Reed scooped it from his open palm heedlessly, shocked to a a standstill by the sudden touch of warm metal against his skin. Neither of them dared to move, if only for a nanosecond--his hand resting again Victor’s open one, their eyes meeting--and then Reed felt the blush rise to cover his face and quickly looked away.

He clutched the memory stick like a talisman.

“Where-- excuse me--" His mouth felt suddenly dry, and words were difficult to manage "...I’ll need a workspace. Where shall I set up?”

Face still distressingly hot, Reed heard himself stammer out the question and hated the sound intensely. Hated that he could be so flustered by so little. They'd barely touched!

Doom, meanwhile, seemed to have lost himself in thought, staring down at his hand as if it were new to him.

“Anywhere you like, for now.”

Nodding hastily, Reed located the nearest datapad and moved to stand by the window, comparing the diagram on file with the current build.

“This is... phenomenal work--the modifications are truly inspired.”

Behind him, Doom made a faint sound that couldn’t quite be deciphered. It wasn’t a 'thank you,’ more a noise of agreement, really. He was, Reed knew, standing so close that they were almost touching, but to what purpose? There was clearly no reason to try and intimidate him…

Richards felt his pulse quicken and tried to ignore it.

Tried, and _failed_.

“Victor… before we begin, I think we should address something…”

A heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder, turning him until they faced one other. The armor gave Doom several inches of height; just enough that he was gazing downward and Reed was forced to look up.

_ (How dearly he wished Victor would just take the damned thing off…)_

“Should we?” Doom’s voice had softened to a velvety murmur, and whatever Reed had intended to say simply vanished as the rounded plates covering Victor's knuckles caressed the curve of his jaw.

If he stared too long into those rust-colored eyes, Reed felt sure he'd be lost and never find his way back again. Part of him wanted desperately to do exactly that; to bury himself in Victor’s shadow and stay there forever, happily and completely enthralled. Shaking off the idea took tremendous effort, especially with Doom’s fingertips now brushing his cheek, one thumb curled under the chin to tip his head back.

“Everything that needed to be said on that subject has been said already,” Victor intoned with a finality that allowed for no further questioning.

_ 'That’s a lie,’_ Reed thought. _'And we both know it. Victor, what are you **doing**? What am** I **doing, here with you?’_ But the tap of metal digits against his lower lip silenced further thought and Reed let his eyes drift closed.

Would he kiss him? Was that were this was going? His entire body felt as if it were vibrating from the tension; barely keeping too much naked _need_ in check as he waited for Victor to make the first move.

Suddenly, the touch and intoxicating sense of Doom's presence was _gone_. The king had simply released him and walked away.

'Mister Fantastic' was quite certain he’d never been so confused, aroused, and utterly _humiliated _all at the same time before. Was he really so transparent? Was his longing so obvious that Doom could simply… wind him up like a clockwork toy for his own amusement, then set him aside at leisure?

The thought was maddening; that Reed felt he deserved no better certainly didn't help.

The only solution was to focus on the work ahead and _refuse_ to be baited again. The sooner he finished dealing with this and left Latveria, the better.


	5. "here, i can build."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well into the project, and things go badly awry.
> 
> Also, a surprise guest I'll have to tag later.

**L**ess than a week into the work and they'd made remarkable progress even by Victor's exacting standards--not that he expected anything less of an intellect _nearly_ as dazzling as his own, but it was still heartening to see his faith had been well-placed.

Reed's continued absence from New York was proving less of a concern than expected, too--no one had shown much interest in searching for him yet at all, and surveillance footage from inside the Baxter Building revealed a trio quietly going about their daily lives as though nothing were amiss. The only oddity of note was the absence of _sound_ in every recording he'd checked, and while Doom wasn't certain what the cause of that was, or what was being kept from him precisely, it hardly seemed vital.

Tapping a thumb against the handle of his cup with increasing vexation, Victor contemplated the empty chair across from his own.

It was peculiar, this lack of alarm from the Four. Nearly a week without word from their steadfast leader and they simply carried on, unperturbed? No. There must be more to it than that. If only he could hear what was being said between them...

Victor sipped with practiced ease, letting the mask's mouthguard drop back into place with a faint _tick_. He'd long since learned to ignore all the various sounds made by the armor, much the same as one learned to tune out individual heartbeats or the cycling of air through the lungs. Others saw a titanium shell, but to _him_... it was a skin he could _choose_ to wear. Impervious and secure; an outer layer as unyielding as the mind that resided within it.

More than once, lately, he'd wondered what Reed saw, when he looked at that exterior: a murderer? A monster, hell-bent on ruling the world? The aloof, lonely transfer student from some distant country he'd never heard of before? 

It was a strange turn of thought, and Doom scowled at it, unsure where it had come from. Checking the time again provided an immediate distraction at least: fifteen minutes past seven. A full _hour_ past dawn. That constituted an insult, in his eyes; _he_ set the schedule here, after all. Reed's time was Doom's to command and if his presence was expected promptly at this place or that, the man should have enough self-preservation to _obey_. And he _had_ been obedient so far, in fact... one short-lived attempt at escape notwithstanding. By every indication, he'd accepted his lot now, and with barely a murmur of protest.

(Why didn't that fact please Victor in the slightest? Why did it _annoy_ him that Reed was behaving?)

Doom rose slowly, unsure of why the anger bubbling up in his chest just now felt so warm and welcome but glad of it all the same. Granted, there was no real intention of _harming_ Reed--at least not yet--but putting the fear of something much more immediate than God into him might be worth visiting, at least.

The private dining room's large wooden doors shrieked open abruptly, and Doom had his weapons on standby before he'd even realized who was standing there--Reed. Alone. His hair still damp from the shower, looking very much like he'd jogged all the way from his wing of the castle.

_ What absolute **nonsense** was **this**?_

The silence that followed was almost comical; they stared at each other tensely until Victor finally relaxed and powered down his small arsenal, steps ringing as he rounded the table to angrily pull Reed's chair out for him.

"Sorry, I overslept," Richards said, clearly out of breath. The dark eyes glaring coldly back at him seemed unmoved by that claim, but he had nothing else to offer. Ducking his head sheepishly (and wishing he hadn't), Reed tried to ignore the look in favor of helping himself to a few bits of fruit and some kind of pastry he didn't recognize. "Of course... we are still ahead of schedule--you expected the Bridge to be operational in five days, and by my estimation--"

"You have twenty-four hours," Victor interrupted, remaining nearby with his arms folded in what Reed couldn't help but consider a _sullen_ posture. "That is the revised estimate to full operational capacity."

Reed paused, and weighed his options carefully.

"Twenty-four hours and we could manage basic utility, but that leaves the portal open along a broad band, Victor, you know that. Narrowing the channel, finding the correct point to link up with their gateway, assuming it even works..." _'Check your math,'_ he wanted to add, knowing exactly what kind of anger that phrase would trigger. But _was_ this an error? Or was the man simply pushing him because he _could_?

"You will manage it in twenty-four hours," Doom repeated resolutely, metallic knuckles resting against the table's glossy top as he leaned in opposite Reed. "As recompense for the time lost to this morning's delay."

'Mister Fantastic'--oh, what a joke that name felt like these days--knew that tone intimately well, and hated the faint thrill of excitement it stirred.

"It can't be done in a single day," he shot back. "And your temper tantrum won't alter the laws of physics."

Too far. He knew it as soon as he'd spoken, but there was no taking it back now, and really... so be it. He'd played along, but clearly that wasn't what Victor wanted either, so what _was_?

Reed braced for something physical, but nothing occurred. When his head lifted again, Victor's eyes locked on his and the tension in the room, in the suffocating silence, reminded him somehow of being underwater.

Four days, and they'd never _once_ discussed... **_that_**. The thing that had happened. The thing neither of them had apparently planned, but both assumed the other intended. His face felt hot, and he couldn't look away from Victor's eyes no matter how hard he tried.

Gold-brown, like honey mixed with blood. You could study them for the rest of your life and never find exactly the right words to describe them.

He didn't want to back down. That was the real problem. Pressing Victor's buttons just appealed too much, but then again... wasn't giving in to that urge just another form of surrender?

"I'll do my best," he muttered at last, lowering his eyes demurely. Play along, cater to Doom's outrageous ego... sabotage the machine before the others could come through it and then deal with the fallout. Not much of a plan as plans went, but it was the only one he had.

At least he understood now why Victor had been so irritable lately, so determined to increase the pressure until something snapped. Instinctively, Reed understood what it was he wanted: an excuse to lash out. To engage physically with him in the only way they both understood. Killing him would be counterproductive, but "alive" encompassed a very broad range, they both understood that.

Victor wanting that made sense, of course; he was like that. It had never frightened Reed particularly, that aspect of his former classmate, because--like nearly everything he did--the rules that governed when and where and to what degree he could allow himself to give in to it were steadfast and simple enough to follow.

What he found _troubling_ was just how badly he wanted to provide the pretext that Victor _needed_.

Pushing away from the table with a murmured apology, he left as quickly and quietly as he could for the lab.

Doom stood blinking in the aftermath, nerves still on edge from the thrumming tension that had been cut so terribly short by Reed's sudden, infuriating agreement.

Too many discordant thoughts crowded his head. He wanted to... 

He...

Victor wasn't entirely _sure_ what he wanted. His memory had fixed on a moment from their college days, the only other time he'd seen Richards fresh from a shower, with his skin scrubbed pink and his hair still dark with water. It was somehow different now that the familiar streaks of white had shaded in at the temples, and for a few seconds the urge to touch it, to touch _him_, had been nearly overwhelming...  
  
Sinking into the nearest chair, fingers curling around the delicate ornamental curve of each wooden armrest, Doom tried to regain his equilibrium; tried to anchor himself in the present again.

(To not think about how completely feral Reed had been during their first accidental interlude and the resonating sense that they somehow understood each other; knew what the other needed most. The man was _married_, after all, although... it was strange that he no longer wore his ring. Perhaps he'd lost it.)

None of that was relevant in the slightest. Only the task at hand mattered now--his revenge, and beyond that, access to the Council's machines. Richards would have to be dealt with before the final stage of the plan unfolded and that presented a challenge, since it was _his_ DNA that acted as the beacon. His unique temporal signature the key that unlocked that door. But once a door was opened, well... it was simple enough to keep it that way. He'd just need to make sure Reed stayed put in the meanwhile.

The collar had one final setting, beneath the modifications he'd made, but Victor recoiled from the thought of using it. The idea of those warm brown eyes staring back at him vacantly, of that dazzling mind disconnected from all higher function...

No. He was a monster in many ways, understood and acknowledged as such, but _that--_he could never do. There must be an alternative, some way of incapacitating him temporarily, and once it was all over... perhaps he'd keep him as a pet.

* * *

Reed worked in silence, trying to limit his focus only to the pieces being welded at a microscopic level in front of him.

Focus. Pinpoint the connectors. String the filament between points A and B. Weld. Repeat.

It was dull, mind-numbing work, but better than following any _active_ train of thought just now, at least.

Beside him, a wide reinforced sheet of glass offered glimpses of the Bridge itself. He preferred not to glance in that direction unless absolutely necessary; it stirred too many unpleasant memories and too much thought about the future. What Victor planned to _do_ with this, his most ill-considered invention.

(What would happen to Victor once that portal opened and the Council realized what had happened. He wouldn't be prepared; he couldn't be. And there was no way to make him understand exactly what he was up against.)

Reed paused, his concentration broken by the sudden thought of Doom... actually _losing_. The sudden hollow in his chest was terribly familiar; he'd felt it after the incident in college, walking through the makeshift lab Victor had destroyed and fearing the damage done might be irreversible. Fearing his friend had actually died, or might succumb to his injuries still.

He'd felt it again the first time he'd seen that metal mask and realized how wrong he'd been--that what'd happened in that basement was not a death but a horrible, unwanted birth--Doom was everything that Victor felt he could never be, and in that monumental shadow, something truly precious slowly withered for want of light.

Caught up in his own thoughts as he'd been, the time had slipped away--and there was precious little of it. Victor would be in to check his progress soon, which meant that if he wanted to run the first test before his arrival, he'd need to do it quickly.

Finishing the last two connections as hastily as he dared, Reed dropped the component into a padded case and pulled off his gloves. Fast, but careful; if the circuitry was damaged in any way, he'd never be able to rework it all in time. Fortunately, if there was one thing to be said for the castle's laboratory design, it was certainly optimized for speed and efficiency; the elevator that carried him down to the building area was as quick as it was flawless--even when it touched down there was no bump, not a single jostle.

Lab coat fluttering around his thighs, Reed hurried to the main controls and opened the hatch, slotting the circuit board into place. A few seconds to calibrate--ensuring that the portal would not and could not truly activate yet, and the Bridge 3.0 hummed to life. Studying the results, Reed's hand briefly hovered over the activator--and then steel fingers closed around his wrist and spun him around, lifting until he was dangled like a child, staring into Victor's angry, red-tinged eyes.

He felt the rumble of sound more than heard it--snarled words, something about betrayal--and then he was against the wall, barely catching himself in time to avoid a face-first collision.

_ 'FINALLY,'_ some part of him thought, meeting Victor's outrage with a heady surge of adrenaline, teeth bared as he twisted to face him.

"Damn it, Victor--you wanted the process expedited--the wiring has to be tested!"

The sudden crush of metal against his throat, just above where the collar rested. Reed let himself go loose-limbed and felt his Adam's apple bob against the palm of Victor's gauntlet; felt himself harden embarrassingly and knew the shiver that ran through him was obvious.

Then he fought, both hands reaching out to grasp uselessly at his opponent's armored neck in return. There was no purchase there; the best he could do was to push Doom's head back, using the wall behind him for leverage.

He could hear them both panting, below the mechanical hum of the machine; Victor caught both his hands in one of his and pinned them above his head, using size and the armor's augmented strength to keep Reed in place.

"Is _this_ what you wanted?" Doom practically growled, letting him breathe just enough to reply.

"It's what... _you_ wanted _too_, Victor--" If he was looking for an excuse, maybe it was time to finally give him one. He was tired of pretending to be cowed and agreeable and oh, yes, this was _absolutely_ what he wanted.

Armored thighs pressed abruptly between his, and Reed arched involuntarily, desperate for the contact. He didn't even bother trying not to moan and in response, heard a sharp, whispered word he didn't recognize. Victor. _Swearing_. There was something too intimate about that; too human and raw not to react to.

"Desperation suits you," Doom murmured; he could see the glitter of amusement through the mask's narrow eye-slots.

"Shut... up, Victor," Reed gasped, hips rolling eagerly, fully aware of how flustered he looked and sounded.

A low laugh from behind the mask and the hand holding his wrists squeezed a little tighter. Reed blushed as he realized that this was all he intended to do, at least for now--tease him, observe the results, and nothing else.

Fine, then--he could at least make it a show worth seeing. If he could just maintain the pace, lock his ankles around Doom's waist... That might provide just enough friction, even if the pressure was _slightly_ uncomfortable. His heart raced and the few quick gasps he could manage barely supplied the oxygen he needed, but it could be managed, even without his abilities.

Victor's chest rose and fell quickly with his own harsh breaths--maybe there was no physical release for him, but he was certainly getting off on this whole display; his excitement was contagious. A feedback loop. A closed circuit.

If they could just--

The Bridge roared abruptly to life, shattering the moment and leaving both men frozen, turning in unison to stare in shocked, wordless confusion.

"Victor..." The worried, warning note in Reed's voice was hardly needed; Doom let go and they both rushed to the controls, simultaneously trying to find a way to power it down and searching for an indicator of why it was doing whatever it was presently doing in the first place.

"No. That's not possible," Reed chattered in disbelief. "That's not--"

The portal shimmered and churned, blue light dancing at its center before fading out again--and on the other side, a slender figure stood outlined in black. Reed had just enough time to wonder how, and then everything seemed to be happening at once; the figure stretching out lightning-quick even as Victor stepped in front of him, a magical forcefield raised and closing around them both--

But not fast enough. Something wrapped around Reed's arm and he was lifted, swaddled in something warm and horribly familiar--

"Is he always this dramatic?" A familiar voice drawled. "Oh, what am I saying--he's a _Doom_. Mine was like that too..." The figure hovered and bobbed like a giant snake, holding Reed firmly tangled in the winding loops of one arm. "...Which is why I had him killed."

The half of his face not covered by a gleaming, reticulated helmet smiled broadly, sharp canine teeth on display.  
  
_Reed's_ face.  
  
"You're not on the Council," Richards-616 managed; the man was nearly crushing him and didn't seem to care. "Who _are_ you?"

Reed-1610 turned, eyes covered but clearly still functional.

"I'm _you_, but smarter, younger, and better looking." Turning back to Victor, he smiled again and lifted his hostage higher. "Mind if I borrow this? No? Great."

Victor had given up on defense the second he realized what was truly happening--but getting a clear shot with anything that might possibly slow the bastard down proved impossible.

"**_Reed!_**" The fear in his voice stunned him, but it was fear that he felt, watching the other Richards slip back through the portal with his prize, the aperture closing behind him.

Turning to the control panel to see where they'd gone, Doom spotted something on the lab's concrete floor and paused, if only for a second.

The collar. Broken in the fight to reveal that every internal component had been removed. How long had it been disabled, and why had Richards continued with the whole charade regardless?

He would only know the answer to that question if he found him alive, and that meant finding him _quickly_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever, I had an outline that was completely different and then I decided to wing it and diverge from that, no need to write it down, surely... and then I got sick and long story short, I've been trying to remember where I meant to go with this ever since. Never did, tho.
> 
> So I decided to do something else with it instead. For all I know, it might be what I was planning all along, I'm gonna pretend it was. 😂 Anyway, thank you all for your patience and I'm very sorry for the delay.


	6. hostage situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reed-1610 is holding Reed-616 prisoner and Doom is pretty annoyed by that.  
Fortunately, he (always) has a plan.
> 
> Unfortunately, the plan may get all three of them killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while, and I apologize. I'm trying for a promotion and that means longer hours than usual, I'm also doing some new training at work, so I'm pretty tired a lot of the time right now.
> 
> I'll get chapter 7 up as soon as I can, but I can't make any promises on when that'll be. I try to update weekly, but I think at this point it's more like once a month. 😥

The only force capable of countering and subduing Reed's own unique abilities would of course be a younger, fresher model--fundamental biology dictated that he couldn't escape, though nothing about that certainty made him feel better about the situation, wrapped up as he was in his alternate-self's serpentine appendages.

_'Thirty isn't old,_' he thought darkly._ 'It's... seasoned, and who is this Reed anyway? How did he get those scars? How did he bypass the Bridge's security?'_

Questions he couldn't ask yet, but he could at least _see_, and that was... something, at least. More than he might've had to work with, certainly. When not being tossed about carelessly in Reed-1610's careless grip, he glimpsed sections of the Council enclave: the table where he'd first sat to discuss his potential membership with them, a broad, darkened screen used to peer into other dimensions, a massive, Goldbergian coffeemaker that could only have come from his own mind (or one very like it). 

The troubling thing was that the entire space seemed... deserted. Not a soul in sight, and now that they were both still, he could see that much of the equipment had been moved around. 

No. More than that, it had been--there was no better term for it--_scavenged_; picked apart and reworked, woven into a larger design whose purpose he couldn't begin to guess at. The arrangement was utilitarian above all, clearly, but it was the visual aspect of it all that nagged at his subconscious mind.

_ Parasteatoda tepidariorum_, he finally remembered; the common house spider, which would build a kind of nest from any available clutter and lay its eggs there. That was what it resembled, more than anything else--the makeshift nest of a particularly busy and restless arachnid.

"I'm getting a cramp," Reed-1610 sighed, unfurling his arm abruptly and letting his counterpart tumble to the floor. "So, I guess we should get the formalities out of the way first--you can call me The Maker, just to avoid confusion; never really cared for _our_ name, especially after finding out I've been sharing it with a bunch of wet socks all this time--"

Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Reed studied the boy--it was hard to think of him as anything else, though at this proximity he could estimate their ages a bit better and was (on a vain, shamefully juvenile level) pleased to find that his alternate was no more than five years younger, six at the very most.

"Any point in asking what you've done with the others?"

The Maker flashed another sharp-toothed grin.

"Guess."

Reed sighed wearily, resting his forehead against one bent knee. This day had been quite long enough already and apparently it was due to become even longer. If he managed to escape from _this_ madman, _and_ the one who'd already been holding him captive... maybe it was time for a nice, long vacation.

Lifting his head again to face the 'Maker,' Reed offered a threadbare sort of resigned determination; an air of _'let's get on with it, then.'_

"Are you planning to kill me as well?"

"Mm." The Maker tapped his chin in a show of contemplation. "Pr-o-bably." he enunciated slowly. "Unless you're more helpful than the others were, I mean... that's why I killed them, it wasn't just for fun; that's not how I work. I lost a world, Mister Richards. I lost an entire dimension, and I intend to get it back. That's where you come in." A pause, and the younger Reed tilted his head in thought. "It's 'Doctor,' isn't it? Sorry. I know we don't typically stand on formalities, but I also know how we secretly _love_ that sweet _recognition_."

The senior Richards had heard about as much monologuing as he could stomach for one afternoon, first from Victor and now... from his own damned face.

"Thanks," he snapped. "Look, just to clarify--you need me to do what, exactly?"

Impossibly, the Maker's grin widened even further; a nightmarish distortion of amusement and something Reed had never once considered doing with their shared abilities.

Part of him had always known they could be this horrifying--this Reed, with his elongated fingers and stretched spine, that ghastly too-wide grin and blind metal gleaming where the eyes should've been... he offered a glimpse of something that Reed had long since given silent acknowledgement and acceptance to before turning his back on it forever.

It would have been easy to become a monster. Retaining his shape took constant effort, especially those first few years, but he clung to his humanity because humans were, in his opinion, worth every ounce of that effort and more. Some of his dearest friends were human, after all--that alone was reason enough to keep himself in the light. 

That, he suspected, was probably where their paths had first diverged.

"You? My goodness, no. You're useless to me--I need to trap something much stronger and stupider for this task and fortunately for me, we seem to come in pairs. Victor should be following my trail of breadcrumbs any time now." He turned to face the array of hanging, see-through screens, insectile digits moving quickly from one to the next.

"I might need you for leverage, you two seem..." The distaste in his tone was obvious, "..._chummy_, but once we're done here and I have my own world back, provided you cause no trouble in the meanwhile... you're free to go."

Reed exhaled slowly, the hands tucked between his knees clenching. He doubted very much that the Maker would actually let him go once this whole thing was finished, but there was little point in questioning that. Besides which, other concerns needed to be addressed first.

"And Victor?"

The Maker seemed to be rolling his eyes.

"Will definitely be dead. It's that kind of process, omelette, eggs... You _do_ know he's the _bad_ guy, yes? In every universe where Doom exists, he destroys. He's not a man, he's a nuclear weapon with delusions of grandeur. They all are. I know you think you can save him, think the power of friendship will prevail and blah blah blah, but that's not how Dooms work. They all go bad, and they take everything with them when they do. This is... trust me, I'm doing you a favor."

Closing his eyes, Reed forced himself to nod slowly and keep his breathing steady--The Maker clearly didn't know exactly what his relationship to Victor was, maybe he just couldn't imagine it, but the less he knew, the less ammunition he had.

"I... don't agree, obviously. I don't condone murder, not even Victor's." The irony wasn't lost on him; it was the same speech he'd given Doom, more or less, when he'd first been told about the Bridge, except now he was arguing for his 'enemy's' life instead.

Murder was murder, that was the thing people like Doom, people like this Reed, couldn't seem to get their heads around. It was never justified, it was never allowable--to take a life, any life, how could they possibly believe themselves entitled to such a thing? Did they not understand how precious, how rare, how miraculous each living thing truly was?

"But..." He needed his best poker face for this act, "...I do know what Doom is capable of. ...Tell me, is... that what happened to _your_ world?"

The Maker snorted, turning away from the screen to fix Reed with a look of contempt.

"Are you really trying to analyze me? Because first of all, psychology is not our forte, and second... Didn't I already say that I had him killed? I know senility makes it hard to keep track, but... do at least _try_."

It was difficult _not_ to remember that in fact, but everything in the young man's response suggested a more sinister truth, and that was the confirmation Reed was seeking (though a part of him had hoped to be proven wrong).

He offered a gentle smile, finally feeling that he had some sense of what he was up against.

"Yes, that must have slipped by me in all the confusion--I'll try to be more attentive in future."

* * *

Victor had rarely been so focused in his entire life, mask and gauntlets abandoned, cloak left draped over a nearby railing so that he could move freely and get at the components he needed. Thusfar, he only knew that _something_ had happened when the other Reed forced the gate open, and that something was very much like a kind of... feedback, as though the device had tried to lock on to both versions of Reed simultaneously and couldn't quite process their proximity to each other. The resulting short-circuit had caused some amount of physical damage, but left the core systems mercifully unaffected. That, thankfully, provided Victor with at least one very simple solution to tracking down the intruder--he could reopen the Bridge at the only point at which it had opened already, but the circuitry would burn itself out shortly thereafter.

A one-way trip to an unknown location, in pursuit of a man who almost certainly wanted him dead. Hardly ideal, but what alternatives were there?

Doom stood from his curled, awkward position beneath the machine's central console and dusted off his hands. The weaponry he had with him would have to be sufficient, there was no time to choose anything else. At least Reed's dark alternate would no longer have the element of surprise to rely on--that was a small comfort. He couldn't bring himself to consider it an actual _advantage _in any sense.

Replacing his mask and gloves, Victor paused just long enough to wrap a familiar green around his shoulders, cinching the disc-shaped clasps into place on his way out of the room.

Odd to find himself riding to the rescue--to the rescue of_ Mister Fantastic_, no less--but that was, he reminded himself, only _one _possible interpretation of his actions; he preferred to consider it a matter of reclaiming what was his. Assuming that Richards was still alive, of course. God help his kidnapper if it were otherwise.

* * *

Tapping irritably at the screen as if he could somehow kick-start the process by simply thumping the readouts, Reed-1610 was _vexed_. Where was Doom? He fully expected the histrionic moron to have arrived by now, weapons drawn and polysyllabic insults at the ready--but there was no sign of him at all. Surely he hadn't given up, surely he didn't intend to leave Richards to his fate--

"While we're waiting," Reed-616 interrupted the Maker's train of thought, his conversational tone grating on the man's already-frayed nerves. "Perhaps you could explain to me why you need Doom for this scheme? Why him, specifically?"

There were, as Doctor Richards saw it, only two possibilities for someone like the Maker: either he was only waiting for the chance to confide the--as he no doubt saw them--brilliant intricacies of his plan to someone else, or he would deem it too risky and dismiss this transparent bid for information out of hand.

"Because Victor--or rather, Doom--is a particularly hardy type of cockroach," the Maker supplied coolly. "During your last attempt to access this half of the multiverse, there was a skirmish involving four very powerful cosmic beings--the Celestials--two of which survived the battle and took it upon themselves to secure this region of space from others of your kind. From--specifically--the Council and all other Reeds. Following so far?"

Reed nodded, offering a guarded look of curiosity. 

"Good," the Maker said smugly, finishing his data-checks and settling into a chair at the center of his 'nest.' "Now, shortly after the battle on the Bridge, things got messy between the Council members, such as they were, and the remaining Celestials, who weren't big on cognitive function but still managed to carry a grudge. Various tools and weapons were employed in an attempt to secure this--" he gestured, "--fortress, some of which were lost in the fray. Or presumed lost, since it turns out the deranged Space-Gods who've holed up on the planet below managed to retrieve a particular relic before it disappeared into deep space and are, as we speak, guarding it with the kind of dedication you really only get from something that can't hold more than one thought in its head at a time." He was clearly warming to the story as he spun it; his Earth-616 counterpart could only guess at how much of it was true.

"A shard of the M'Kraan Crystal. And since Doom has already faced these Celestials once--the Council believed that he may have killed one of them himself--who better to retrieve the shard? Now, I know what you're thinking: Victor and his addiction to power, there's no way he'll just hand over something he could use to level up instead--except that it radiates a particularly toxic flavor of neutrino radiation, possibly due to its... complicated origin... and sustained contact is lethal. Once he has it in hand, he'll have slightly less than thirty minutes to make the drop-off before his organs liquefy."

A long, slow breath from the elder Reed; neither had noticed the faint sheen of gold light emanating from the doorway, nor the shadow that followed.

"And if he refuses?" Reed-616 asked quietly, almost certain he didn't really want to know the answer.

"I believe that's where _you_ come in, Richards," a familiar voice rumbled; both Reeds turned sharply towards those metallic tones but only one of them seemed--for a fraction of a second--relieved to hear them again.

Victor practically strolled across the room, locking eyes with the Reed of his world as if the Maker weren't there at all.

"...Why _else_ take a hostage, after all?"

The Maker laughed softly, delighted that things had gone so perfectly to plan.

"Well, finally something we agree on--yes, you either retrieve the shard, or I kill your pet DILF. A calculated risk, admittedly; I meant to go after your goddaughter instead, but opportunity provided a workable alternative."

Reed's stomach twisted at the mention of Valeria. 

"A 'workable alternative'?" Victor barked a scornful laugh. "Your entire, ludicrous plan hinges on Doom's willingness to risk himself to save a man he _detests_. You'd have been better served if you'd kidnapped my chef."

Biting his lip, Reed-616 rose slowly from the floor, careful not to draw attention away from Doom's grandstanding but quickly enough to place himself just near enough for whatever Victor's plan was. He never for an instant doubted that Doom had one.

"And yet, here you are," the Maker shot back.

From his vantage point, Doctor Richards could see the corners of Victor's eyes crinkle in a broad, vicious smile.

"Yes," he confirmed. "How would would they know where to find you?"

A burst of multi-hued light filled the room, and suddenly everything seemed to be happening at once--Reed was distantly aware of a mass of green and silver forms, and of the Maker shouting behind him, but Doom's gloved hands closed around his upper arms and he was pulled forward into a rough embrace that more or less dragged him away from the entire scene.

"Victor--"

Behind them, a rabble of arguing voices, several of which sounded... familiar.

"--those were Dooms. _Other_ _Dooms_. What did you _do?_"

The king stopped for just long enough to glare down at his companion.

"Saved your life, restored order to the multiverse, and brought a well-known villain to justice--" A yelp from behind him, and Victor turned to glance at whatever was occurring. "--of a sort. Now, shall we continue our escape, or is further explanation required?"

Absurd, the urge to laugh, but there it was all the same. Reed gave in to it briefly, letting his arms slide around Victor's body underneath the cloak he'd thrown around them both. On secondary impulse, he delivered a small, chaste peck to the mask's left cheek.

"Let's get out of here," he whispered, unsure of what emotion glittered in Victor's half-shaded eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was the Parliament of Dooms from Fantastic Four Vol 4 #9, I'm not really keen on that story (not keen on Fraction's F4 stuff in general really) but I couldn't resist bringing them in here.
> 
> Things to bear in mind here: The Dooms may not be happy to find one of their own canoodling with the enemy, and Victor still has no way to get them home--though of course, he does have a plan.
> 
> (We're halfway there, yo. Few more chapters to go on this.)


End file.
